By Amber Hunthttp://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/travel/2004042113_belize02.htmlCAYE CAULKER, Belize - As I stepped inside the Barrier Reef bar, I heardthe last thing I ever would have expected while on a tiny island offBelize: My name."Amber!" yelled Mike the Bartender. "Here comes trouble!" It's the kind ofgreeting you might expect when you've been a regular for years. This,however, was just my second visit to the oceanfront pub on Caye Caulker, aCentral American island boasting about 1,200 people - tourists included.

Mike had worked the previous night, too. Now he knew my name.

Normally, this might have been off-putting. After all, when you're some2,000 miles away from home and you're a woman traveling solo, you can takecomfort in anonymity. Slide under the radar, and you feel less likely toland in trouble.But Caye Caulker is more small town than foreign island. Meet someone, andyou're likely to know his whole story after a single conversation.

And he's just as likely to know yours.

How about Belize?

I'd decided on a whim that I wanted to take a tropical trip. I asked awell-traveled colleague to rattle off some ideas. He insisted Belize wouldfit my loose criteria: beachy, tropical and safe.

Enter serendipity: The same week I decided on my country, I met a couplewho had traveled to and from Belize since the 1970s to identify Mayan remains.

Among their suggestions: Caye Caulker (pronounced Key KAW-kerr), a10-minute plane ride from Belize City. It seemed the most versatile,offering beach life with the option of island hopping - or mainland visits- as desired.

I decided on a week's stay and took the puddle-jumper from Belize City. Itskipped to a stop on a dirt landing strip; at the end stood a hand-paintedwooden sign: "Welcome to Caye Caulker."

Of the dozen or so people on the plane, I was the only one getting off. Therest flew on to nearby San Pedro, a bigger island, with cobblestone streetsinstead of dirt ones and far more bars and beachfront than Caye Caulker.

A man named Lulu grabbed my bags and tossed them into the back of a golfcart. This is the island's idea of a taxicab.

Lulu gave me the rundown as we clunked along the pocked road toward SeasideCabanas, my destination. "You have three streets," Lulu said. "FrontStreet, Back Street and Middle Street."

I thought he was joking. He wasn't. The island is all of 1 ½ miles wide and5 miles long - and a chunk of it is undeveloped marine reserve.

As we drove, Lulu pointed out some attractions: the elementary school, aquaint pastel-colored building with an aging playground; the sun-drenchedchurch, away from the main drag of restaurants and bars.

We turned a corner, and he pointed at the I&I Bar, a half-indoor,half-outdoor hangout where he said the young people go.

We reached my hotel, a series of linked cabanas. Mine cost $100 a night foran air-conditioned room with a semiprivate rooftop patio overlooking theocean and a pool.

By American standards, this was a nice room for a great price. In Belize, Iwas living the high life.

The quiet lifeWithin an hour of arriving, I wandered down Front Street, eyeing theweather-worn storefronts and dreadlocked locals.

Some people milled in and out of the stores - designed as much for touristsas for islanders - and there was the occasional 20-something with abackpack, but the island was quiet and peaceful.

A man slept on the sand between two palm trees, his bicycle a few feetaway. It was about 90 degrees and sunny. A light breeze swept throughlaundry as it line-dried in the backyards of modest wooden homes.

Occasionally I'd make way for a passing golf cart. There were just ahandful of cars on the whole island - and they belonged to bigwigs such asthe island's banker. The rest walked, bicycled or drove golf carts to getaround.

It took less than 20 minutes to reach the end of the island, where Istumbled into the Lazy Lizard, an open-air bar and grill. People slept inhammocks on the restaurant's dock and ate at oceanside picnic tables.

Here is where I met my first of many recurring island characters: Zumandu.(He'd be Bartender No. 2.)

Zumandu could tell I was new to Caye Caulker. I assumed I must have lookedlike a blank-eyed tourist. Turns out, he knew simply because he hadn't metme yet - and he meets everyone.

"Here, everybody knows everybody," he told me in a thick Caribbean accent.Case in point: Despite the island's scarce crime, a visiting couplerecently was robbed of some money and their passports. Word spread aboutthe incident, and within the day their goods were returned.

Fitting inWhen I visited Hawaii, I felt a definite islanders-vs.-mainlandersmentality. No one was rude, but you sensed that no matter how long youstayed on the island, you'd always be looked at as a tourist.

Not so on Caye Caulker. Visitors sometimes account for half of thepopulation, so you feel embraced as part of the culture. You're not a peskytourist; you're a consumer and a guest, and islanders happily strike upconversations to learn what brought you there.

Especially if you're a woman. If you're female and you need an ego boost,go to Caye Caulker. You're complimented so much it actually starts to getannoying. (Who knew that was even possible?)

That means, too, that you can't be meek: Sometimes you need to be firm butfriendly as you insist you're not interested - not entirely surprising whenvisiting an island whose most popular drink is the rum-based Panty Ripper.

I'd meant to take advantage of some off-island activities, such as a sunsetjaunt to the barrier reef to go snorkeling, or a day trip to Belize City tovisit Mayan ruins and zipglide over the jungle.

Unfortunately, I put those mini-adventures off, and the last two daysintermittent rains caused the water to rise too high, so the organizedtrips were canceled.It was just as well. Staying on the island meant I met more people. Like TVTom, the good-natured boozehound who owned the island's only electronicsstore - featuring the best 1992 had to offer. And Gringo Jack, a Floridatransplant who bragged about his popular, streetside shrimp-on-a-stickenterprise.

I learned the most about Mike the Bartender, who had moved from Guatemalaafter nearly dying in a car wreck. Born in London, he'd decided to take ayear off. That year had come and gone, and now he was planning to become aBelize citizen.